


Take My Hand, We're In Foreign Land

by artdeficient



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff and Angst, M/M, One Night Stands, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:46:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5372495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artdeficient/pseuds/artdeficient
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan studies English lit and creative writing at university, a writer wound up in the works of art words can create. Phil transfers to English lit, and after a one night stand they face the trials of living with each other for a year, coping with each other through ups and downs and, eventually, they find they’re closer than anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take My Hand, We're In Foreign Land

**Author's Note:**

> written for phandom big bang 2015  
> i am extremely grateful for all the lovely people who have helped me with this fic, especially my wonderful and supportive beta anna, my lovely artist sarah and my BFF amy for helping me so much throughout this whole writing process. thank you all for putting up with me and being so lax on me for cutting it so close to the deadline :’) i hope you like it!!!! msgs are encouraged bc i love feedback and i’d love to hear your opinion <33

Dan sees colours in words and atmospheres between the spaces of letters and sometimes, his hands stain under the weight of black ink.

He has this theory, as the type of person who never leaves their hands without a pen or a notebook for more than a few minutes, that one day the words he prints onto paper will jump up and make something out of themselves. It’s more of a wish, really, when everything he writes seems to flatten into the paper and shrink into nothing, have no depth whatsoever. Because he wants his stories to thrive, to actually have a presence in peoples’ minds and be remembered, but it’s not so easy when his words don’t cooperate the way he wants them to.

Dan wants something physical, something he can hold in his hands with the knowledge that every string of words inside it has come from his own mind, his own thoughts and  _imagination_ , and he finds something almost phantasmagorical in that. Because anyone else could look at a book he’s written and see black print, a severe spine and a few golden letters etched on the cover - something not entirely important, not  _meaningful_  to them in any way. But Dan knows that under a layer of deceptive calm is everything he’s wanted to express, in bursting colour and fragile solidity and crackles of black against white. It’s fascinating, in a way that frustrates him to no end.

Because despite how enticing the idea sounds, he can’t manage to actually produce anything worthy to print in a book in the first place. He has this burning urge to express his thoughts in any way possible, to claw out the most brutal parts of himself and paint them in disguise before printing them onto paper. But thinking about doing that and actually doing it are two different things, and Dan hasn’t quite got a grip on _how_. All his notebooks are plain black and creased at the corners, dog eared pages giving them an overall battered look. He likes it like that; he likes how his writing is scribbled and jumbled and kind of all over the place in its insistence to mean something, how each notebook has to be completely overflowing with words before he starts a new one. It’s just that for the most part, a carefully structured, finely detailed version of his thoughts sounds a little better than a cluttered mess of ink and desperation.

He finds that some days his thoughts will slide, travel smoothly from his head onto the page in a pure form of simplicity; those are the days he loves. Dan can write about the colours he sees in words, the way some words emanate different vibes to others in that some feel pale pinks and blues in his head, soft and mellow, almost floral in their essence, and others are sharp greys and navy blue, rough in their arrangement of letters. It’s the way the letters arrange themselves that’s important to Dan. Any other arrangement and the word, the sentence, would mean something completely different, or be of no significance at all. In Dan’s eyes writing is art; letters and words are as important to think about as the final piece. Without a selection of colour and depth, his writing would fall limp onto the page, useless. And, he thinks, to create poetry with meaning one has to consider the colour palette of the words chosen; they have to understand how people will envisage the imagery created by those words, and how each palette blends together to create a kaleidoscopic chaos which makes up a masterpiece.

Dan takes English literature at university. He has pale skin and rolled up jumper sleeves and notebooks bundled up in his arms, and he might get called pretentious every so often but truthfully he indulges in the smell of soft printed pages, the fragility of language and the vines that curl around his wrists and strain his veins because he’s written too much. He’s in his second year, starting tomorrow. He’s hoping the fact that his limbs ache and his mind feels numb won’t fuck things up too much.

–

When Dan unlocks his new flat the jangling of the keys echoes into the empty space, bouncing off the walls to create an even less inspiring image than already presented. The walls are white, plain, and Dan drags his suitcases in with a vigour so pathetic he lets out a sigh. The sigh reverberates around the room.

Judging by the lack of  _anything_ , his room mate for the year ahead hasn’t arrived yet. Dan scopes the apartment; chooses the best room with the best view of the city from the window, throwing his bags down on the floor before collapsing onto the bed he’d made sure was provided when he got here. The room drips  _‘dull’_ , drags vacancy and five years of neglect along its walls, and in all it’s sort of depressing, so Dan stands up before his feet go numb and grabs his notebook. He catches a reflection of himself in the glass on his way out, his jumper seeming to hang at all the wrong angles; he changes it quickly to a soft beige knit jumper which mutes his features and locks the door on the way out.

–

He bumps into Sven on his way to the library, and under his best friend’s  insistence he’s persuaded to be on the receiving end of a house tour at Sven’s new apartment, which is then proceeded by an invitation to a club and under the watchful eyes of five of his friends-who-aren’t-really-friends Dan has to agree. Which is why he finds himself in the corner of said club, Sven long gone, nursing a glass of something he doesn’t exactly like the taste of.

His eyes are blurring ultramarine and vermilion; his hands shaking with the effort of keeping the illumination of his anxiety at bay. Dan doesn’t do well in this kind of scene. He’s sort of hoping something will snatch him up in its claws and torment him further, and with his body language he guesses it won’t take long. His gaze snaps across the room, his teeth pressuring his lip into submission until he tastes blood and he’s a little like a startled animal, cowering under the eyes of those bold and rough and audacious. Dan’s here, now. And the glass never leaves his hands because he was told never to lose sight of it in the early stages of high school, so he clasps it with white knuckles even though he knows drinking it is only going to add to the cracking chaos in his head, flashing lucent; obnoxious.

For a second he thinks he’s doing okay under the fluorescent lights that stain his skin hues of pinks and blues, so he closes his eyes, lets the thrum of the club’s music wash through him until he kind of feels like writing about the explosion of colour on a shadowed figure; how fluorescence makes a person agile, smooth in their posture and in their motion, showcasing the elegance of erupting peonies and carnations from porcelain skin. His eyes open to visions of dancing flowers and Dan’s heart aches a little less than it had before, until his gaze lands on someone still, someone with their head tilted, their neck and torso tainted with ripples of sapphire. They’re looking straight at him, eyes piercing. The more uncomfortable Dan feels the more he wants to maintain eye contact, hypocritically, so he tilts his head to the side, mirroring sapphire with waves of crimson. They stay in their positions for a while, curious animals stepping in hesitant circles around each other, testing, calculating. Dan could name five types of flower that represent the curves of deep blue in the boy’s fringe, the shadow of midnight underneath his eyes but couldn’t for the life of him understand exactly what he feels in the empty pocket of time that hangs around their ankles. It all becomes a little too much after Dan tastes another drop of blood on his lips, so he licks them, slowly, and turns for the bathroom.

Dan is met with white walls and cracked tile when he stumbles through the door, his hands feeling empty before he realised he left his drink on a table and so he runs them through his hair instead, messing it up in an attempt to gain more control; not that it gives him any. The room is cold, damp, but he doesn’t have to wait five seconds before there’s another figure pushing open the door and the boy is stood there, in front of him, with a smile that’s way too soft. Dan feels his skin blushing amaryllis at the contradiction of dark eyes and soft lips so he clears his throat. The boy’s smile twitches further upwards.

“Are you okay?” Is the first thing the boy asks, and Dan’s not used to this at all; he can’t quite remember why he’s even here, why he’s doing this, why the only thing he wants to do is let himself go.

Dan steps further back into the bathroom, until the boy has followed him to the corner of the room and then he lets his reply free, only to trip over it on the way out. “I’m- yeah. I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”

The boy raises his eyebrows. “You don’t?”

There’s a moment where they both stop still in their places and Dan blinks spots of yellow and blue, his lashes absorbing harsh light, and he can  _sense_  the fragility and negligence of their positions but he finds for once, he really doesn’t give a fuck.

The boy’s posture is that of someone beautiful, someone with stars in their veins and flowers lacing their bones. It doesn’t take Dan long to whisper a broken  _fuck_ , let himself be crowded against the bathroom wall, his head hitting cracked white tile as he’s met with lips of clementine and soft mint. His hair is pulled and gentle lips bruise his neck and he finds everything in the expanse of pale skin the boy opens up to him, his breath catching at every rise; he whimpers as he’s pinned against the wall and the boy in front of him sinks to his knees, dilated eyes watching Dan with every movement.

His gasps turn into moans with ease, and Dan finds with every passing second that regretting this would be almost laughable.

-

7:00am. **  
**

Dan opens his eyes to bright light, sunlight streaming in through the window he hasn’t bothered to buy blinds for yet. The first few seconds of consciousness are almost blissful; a pocket of time where his eyelids flutter open and closed, his lips curving into a yawn as he brings his hands up to his face. As soon as he sits up, though, he’s hit with a wave of hunger, his stomach growling in protest and so he pulls back the bedcovers with another yawn and stretches his limbs. Dan doesn’t even think as he pads into the kitchen in his boxers, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to fix the post-sleep blur of vision. It’s cold, but as he reaches into a cupboard to make his breakfast he finds he doesn’t really care; the relief of having the initiative to buy himself a week’s worth of food the day before crowds his mind more than anything else.

He sits down at the table with a half hearted slice of toast and a glass of juice, bringing his knees up to sit in a cross legged position as he grabs a dog eared copy of  _The Bell Jar_. The apartment is quiet and Dan relaxes into his chair, almost blindly unaware of his situation; he sits with the novel between two hands, his legs crossed in unison, dark curls spilling over his forehead, and reads. Early morning light filters in through the living room window, casting spirals of dust into existence, and Dan shuffles in his seat. It’s muted, soft around the edges. Dan soaks in words with the same vigour as the strawberry jam on his toast, his mind processing only fabrications of the real world. He’s sort of absent, in a subdued way. That is, until he hears a bang echo along the hallway, followed by a muffled curse which almost scares Dan out of his skin.

The book is marked and closed with nimble fingertips and Dan’s taking in a breath, biting his lip as the novel is returned to its place on the tabletop. His fingers twist together but he doesn’t move, because he’s guilty as fuck to realise he forgot the existence of his roommate. Maybe it had been the events of the night before forcing him into some kind of trance or maybe his senses hadn’t quite come to him in the light of the morning, but  _fuck_ , Dan feels sheepish. And so he waits with his breath caught in his throat, his shoulders hardened into a tense line.

It isn’t until his roommate shuffles into the room with the softness of someone still half asleep that Dan really tenses up.

“ _Shit_.” He’s cursing into his hand, staring wide eyed at the figure and they’re staring back with the same deer in headlights look and Dan feels like drowning himself in the contents of his glass because _fuckfuckfuckfuck_  this isn’t happening. He’d had a clear idea of who his roommate would be, and then there’s this.

Their mouth hangs open in an “o”, before a quick hand flies up to rub their face and neither of them move, because Dan’s had awkward experiences and he’s been in some pretty fucked up situations but this one tops the list, no doubt. From his spot on the chair Dan watches them move towards him, takes in a disarray of black hair against pale skin and shuts his eyes for a split second before snapping them open again, forcing himself into reality.

“Fuck,” Dan mumbles again, a stumbling mess of curls and red cheeks and he’s feeling more conscious of his bare skin than ever, hugging his knees to his chest in an effort to cover himself. “Hello.”

The boy from the club raises an eyebrow, seemingly considering whether to stay standing or slip into the chair opposite Dan’s. With a somewhat apprehensive glance at Dan he does so, folding his legs onto the brittle wood of the chair. It’s quiet again, but in a way which makes Dan’s skin ache with cold and his fingers thread through his hair in agitation. He’s staring at the boy and his breath keeps catching, his heartbeat pulsing in his neck. It’s far from comfortable.

“Hello.” The boy says, voice quiet, before he coughs and pushes his glasses up his nose. “I wasn’t - I wasn’t expecting- well-”

“This?” Dan supplies, and the boy nods, lost for words.

“I can always- If you want I can arrange somewhere else. You know. If you’re not comfortable with…” the boy gestures to the space between them hesitantly, watching Dan closely for a reaction.

“No!” Dan exclaims a little too quickly, looking away; “No, it’s fine. It’s- whatever, right? Last night was just- let’s just forget it, okay? It didn’t happen.” His words are determined, laced with slight bitterness. The boy doesn’t dare argue.

“Okay. I’m Phil, by the way. Don’t ask me why I know your name.”

They sit in their respective seats for a moment, and Dan won’t look Phil in the eye but from what he can see Phil’s staring at him, all mussed hair and parted lips. He doesn’t quite know how he’s going to get through this; part of him wishes he’d gone through with Phil’s offer of finding another place. So he sighs, chews on his cheek for a second. He’s just about to break the silence when Phil picks up his copy of  _The Bell Jar_  and smiles, colour dusting his cheeks to Dan’s relief.

“So you’re English lit then?” Phil guesses, eyes trained on the cover. His fingers trace the title in slow arcs, treating the book as something delicate, something to be handled with care. Dan watches for a second before he remembers he’s supposed to reply.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, resting his chin on his knees, “Sylvia Plath really gets under my skin, y’know? Great for early morning reading.”

Phil looks up then and laughs, raising an eyebrow; it occurs to Dan that maybe his response was a bit full on. “You’re definitely the tortured poet type aren’t you? I could tell from the moment I saw you, to be honest. All doe eyed and mysterious-”

“Shut up,” Dan says, indignant. “I am not  _mysterious_. And from what I’ve seen, you’re definitely as bad.”

“Probably. I switched to English lit this year, though, you’ll be happy to know.”

Dan’s eyes widen, his hand frozen in its outstretch for the glass of juice abandoned on the table. “You- what? You’re in my course as well?”

“Yep,” Phil replies with a smirk, laughing when Dan’s features morph into a frown. “Hey! I didn’t know I’d end up living with you after sucking you off on the bathroom floor.”

“Fucking  _hell_. Can we forget it?” Dan tenses up completely, unfolding his legs and making to stand up before Phil’s arm darts out to stop him. He’s pissed enough to be want to be anywhere away from Phil, though, so he shrugs himself out of Phil’s grip with a glare. The last thing he needs is someone intent on making his life hell.

Phil sighs and lowers his hands, though he’s still smiling a little, in a way which turns Dan’s stomach. _Bastard._

“Sorry. I get it. Poetic types need their dignity, don’t they?”

“Fuck off.” Dan’s fuming, now, itching with annoyance because of the way Phil’s managed to rile him up, make his cheeks flush red. He turns his back only for Phil to follow close behind, padding along behind Dan to Dan’s bedroom where he stops in the doorway. Dan reminds himself to control his breathing and try not to slam the bedroom door in Phil’s face; either way, the smirk on Phil’s face is something he can’t help but groan outwardly at. Phil’s something  _else_. Dan doesn’t know why the fuck he’s signed himself up for this; a year of living with his younger brother would probably be less traumatising.

“Look, Dan, I’m sorry, really. I was just messing about.” Dan’s caught off guard by how sincere the apology sounds and so he turns his head, eyeing Phil skeptically. He’s leaning against the doorframe of Dan’s room looking nothing but apologetic, his hands dropped to his sides, and so they study each other for a long moment until Dan’s almost convinced. Almost. Except he’s not in control in their situation and he knows Phil’s got the upper hand and it’s driving him insane to the point where he feels like maybe he  _hates_ Phil, already. And maybe he’s secretly thriving with something different and something he can fight with and maybe Phil thinks he loves this and maybe he does. But it doesn’t mean he’s going to let that be known.

Dan shrugs, watching Phil card a hand through his hair in the morning light. “We’re starting again, okay?”

Phil nods almost imperceptibly, moving to stand up straight. His features are too neutral for Dan to pick out his irritation clearly; he feels himself relaxing the more Phil seems to be co operating to Dan’s form of stability. “Alright.”

They don’t talk for the rest of the day.

-

Getting all their furniture assembled and in the right places is a feat Dan wouldn’t have believed to be hard, except Phil’s dropping casual remarks down his neck every five minutes and he’s putting the furniture in places Dan doesn’t want it to go, and if he wasn’t pissed off before he is now. At first he’d been adamant their situation wasn’t going to work, and now that he’s had time to think about it he knows it won’t, especially if Phil keeps talking and breathing and existing so close to him. Dan’s a little too restless, a little too defensive; he’s known Phil for just over a day, half of that time swallowed by fluorescent lights and heavy bass and so he isn’t exactly in the position to open up. The problem is, Phil doesn’t seem to get that.

“Can we swap rooms?” Phil’s leaning at the doorway to Dan’s bedroom again, bored after his efforts of organising the living room. He still hasn’t unpacked his things, just focused on the rest of the apartment. Dan was okay with that. He isn’t with this.

“No?” It’s phrased almost as a question, and Dan’s gaze snaps over to meet Phil with a glare. “You can keep your own room.”

“But yours has a better view.” Phil whines, looking over at the window as if to prove a point. Dan sighs.

“I don’t care. I got here first, it’s mine-”

“Can I sleep in here with you, then?”

Phil’s smirking, leaning into the doorframe with a look that’s driving Dan insane and the familiar urge to slam a door in Phil’s face makes a surprising reappearance. Dan scoffs; lets his glare sink in before he turns towards the window in his desk chair. “Shut up. You’re giving me a fucking headache.”

Phil watches Dan spin around on the chair for a few moments with an amused look before he comments; “I think you’re the one giving yourself a headache. Can you calm down a little?”

It’s a moment before Dan stops spinning, and he’s feeling a little guilty because at least Phil’s trying, whatever twisted ways he has of showing it. Instead of apologising he just shrugs noncommittally, wondering. If Phil notices Dan’s gaze looking him up and down he doesn’t comment, only lingers by the doorway as if expecting something.

“Yeah. Probably. Don’t you have friends, or something?” he decides on, and Phil looks a little offended by the remark but brushes it off with a small grin.

“Probably. But I wanted to spend quality time with my roommate, and your interior decorating skills are shit. You should see the living room.”

“I’m not sure I want to,” Dan remarks, though his lips are twitching upwards and Phil’s grin widens.

“You definitely do.” Phil says, and then he’s moving to sit on the edge of Dan’s bed and in his wake is something small and glittery, harsh colour against the white of the wall.

Dan squints a little, scoots his chair a little further forward. “Is that- did you just put a cat sticker on my wall?”

Phil just laughs and watches as Dan slides his chair over to the offending sticker. “There’s at least 5 more in the living room. Three in the bathroom, if you don’t count the puppy stickers I stuck on the bathroom mirror.”

“You’re insane.” Dan’s saying, but he can’t hold back a grin; and he’s infuriated by how easily he’s being sucked in by Phil’s jokes and his childishness and he hates himself for how much he finds it endearing. The best he can do to control his smile is bite his lip. Phil’s looking extremely pleased with himself.

–

It’s not long before Dan’s room is spilling with records and soft spoken literature and posters crinkled at the edges, and for the first time in a while he feels like he’s ready to call it home. Having a place that feels so  _him_  is really benefiting his mood; he’s never quite himself without being properly settled in. And somehow, he’s able to open his eyes a little more and get to know his room mate, if only from a distance. They haven’t talked much in the last week, and so Dan’s learnt to lean back and observe Phil in a much more reserved way. He’s noticed Phil’s apparent obsession with house plants, his love of small nintendo plushies;  _especially_  his love of video games. Dan’s walked into the living room a few too many times with an urge to join Phil at a game of Super Smash Bros., but his unwavering fear of rejection persuades him back into the safety of his room. Dan’s not shy, as such. He’s just a little unsure of how to forget earlier events that still sting the backs of his eyes as if they were yesterday.

The thing is, though, Phil’s moved on. And when Dan comes back from a night out with Sven at 3am two weeks after he’s moved in he’s almost surprised to find that Phil’s gone to bed without a word; they’re already beginning to move in different circles, and it shouldn’t hurt Dan’s feelings to know that Phil probably doesn’t want to get to know him any better, but it does. Maybe it’s Dan’s fault for not having the guts to properly initiate a friendship in the first place. Maybe it isn’t. He doesn’t know.

-

Disagreeing on small things seems to be Phil’s new favourite thing to do, from what Dan can observe. He’s constantly countering Dan’s statements, sitting back with a smug look on his face with the knowledge that yes, it really does piss Dan off, and maybe they _would_  actually get on a hell of a lot better if he didn’t have to constantly feel the need to argue. Dan feels the need to remind him that it wasn’t his idea to have them share an apartment, but from what he’s already tried to express he knows Phil will brush it off. So it continues, and after a week of petty argument between the two of them Phil seems to have finally exhausted his long list of remarks. What amuses Dan is the way he actually seems disgruntled by it.

“What’s wrong? Can’t you think of anything?”

Phil’s head snaps around to look at him from where he’s sat on the sofa, one leg folded under the other. He’s shivering in his oversized jumper and pyjama bottoms because they still haven’t got the heating sorted, quite yet, and the position makes him look even more childish than Dan had thought.

“What do you mean?” Phil asks, his teeth chattering a little. Dan raises his eyebrows, sinking down onto a beanbag.

“You usually have some sort of argument ready for me-”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes you do,” Dan counters, sighing when Phil curls further into the sofa in lieu of a reply. A split second decision forces him off his beanbag and towards the store cupboard at the end of the hall to look for some blankets he stuffed at the back at the beginning of the week, and he comes back with his arms loaded.

“Here.” He throws a blanket at Phil, who mumbles a quick ‘thanks’ in response, and wraps the rest of the blankets around himself in a protective shield against the cold.

“It’s freezing.” Phil groans, voicing his thoughts, and he has to agree. He watches Phil  roll around in his blanket for a few moments more before a thought comes to him. Not that Phil would want to, but.

“Have you watched Sword Art Online before?” he asks, and Phil’s gaze immediately turns to him, unreadable.

“No,” Phil responds, and Dan’s about to dismiss the idea when he continues, “But I want to watch it sometime.”

Dan chews his lip, wondering. “Well, if you want- I mean, a friend back home bought the box set for me as a leaving present, so- if you want-”

“Okay.” Phil says, pulling his jumper sleeves up and holding his hands against his face in an attempt to warm himself up. He looks so small in the position, so delicate despite the personality Dan knows on the outside, and it’s making Dan increasingly uncomfortable to know how endearing he finds it. So he stands up again, this time wrapped in blankets, and goes off to his room to try and find the box set in all the crap he hadn’t bothered sorting out yet.

Five minutes later and he’s successfully brandishing the box, shuffling back into the living room to slip the first DVD into the player Phil had luckily brought with him. It had sparked one of their first arguments of ‘Who uses a DVD player these days?’, which Dan now feels a little sheepish about; he didn’t know it would become this handy. To his relief Phil doesn’t comment, only shifts up to let Dan sit next to him, and they bury into their matching bundles of polyester fabric and quieten as the opening song plays.

-

Their predicament eases slightly as the days go on and Dan immerses himself in his classes, mostly for the reason that with their shared course it’s given him something to talk about with Phil, and to his surprise, their conversations are a lot more valuable than he previously thought. He’s drowning in essays and presentations and scattered scraps of highlighted pages, cluttering the living room with the piles of novels he brings home from the library every friday but Phil doesn’t mind, just sits on the sofa in his glasses and a soft jumper, with a cup of tea in one hand and  _The Great Gatsby_  in the other. They’re quiet; they drift around each other in stages of calm and concentration, in silences pulled apart by pen on paper and crisp pages being turned. Sometimes Phil will laugh to himself, a quiet disturbance which Dan welcomes, and sometimes he goes on for a few moments to complain about a character or to whine about the irrelevancies of a plot line but Dan will listen, because he’s come to the conclusion that Phil makes for quite good company. He’s almost fascinated by Phil’s presence, by the amiability he seems to possess.

It comes to the point where Dan gets home late after a study session with Sven and Sophie and Phil’s cooking dinner for them both, because he knows Dan won’t cook for himself in his usual exhaustion and Phil gets worried that he doesn’t eat enough. It becomes the norm that Dan will bring home Phil’s favourite sweets on a trip to Tesco, that he will insist on doing the washing because Phil still mixes his whites with his reds and Dan’s had a few too many pink t shirts in the past few weeks to keep quiet. They argue, and they disagree on almost everything but within that a sort of companionship forms, because their hours are spent together whether night or day and Dan thinks a certain attachment comes with seeing someone five minutes after they’ve woken up, ten minutes before they go to sleep. There’s an unspecified sensitivity in sleepy eyes and secluded yawns, in messy hair and gazes meant for far more intimate relationships. He can’t say he really objects to it that much, though; Phil smiles in shades of pastel yellows, his words vivid, welcoming, his passion laying in the modest and unassuming house plants scattered in various places throughout their apartment. He likes sticking things to Dan’s possessions, likes leaving Dan with tiny cats on his piano and on his bookmarks for him to find in the moments when he least expects it. And Dan- he has no problem with any of it. He’s beginning to soften to Phil’s idiosyncrasies, and he feels a sort of affection when he’s confronted with thinking about their relationship over the past few weeks. It’s just- the most disheartening realisation is that really, he doesn’t know Phil at all. There’s a barrier between their relationship and growth, one which Dan’s terrified of crossing because once he does he’s in something deep, something he doesn’t have the experience to get out of. And maybe, in an alternate universe, he would push through to find out. It’s just that categorically, Dan isn’t that person.

-

It’s when he’s making himself a coffee early on a Saturday morning a week later that Dan realises that in all honesty, he does want to know Phil better, on a deeper level than amicable nights spent studying and drinking tea have given him. As soon as he has that thought, however, he’s bombarded with a plush Piranha Plant rose.

“I haven’t seen you in like, 5 years.” Phil remarks from behind Dan as Dan tries to figure out where the plush has landed. He spins around once he’s found it, and he makes to reply but in his split second observation he’s realised that Phil is clad only in boxers. He makes a vague choking noise before masking it with a cough.  _Fuck_  him.

“Yeah,” he chokes out, before clearing his throat; “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

“You look tired,” Phil observes, chewing on his lip for a second until he takes the plush off dan and places it on the counter. “Had a late night?”

Dan brings his lips up to his coffee cup in reply, nodding, and Phil looks a little off but he can’t quite place why.

“Have them often, don’t you?”   

“What’s it to you?”  Dan mumbles against his cup, his eyebrows raised.

“Nothing!” Phil says a little too quickly, turning around to face the counter and  busy himself with the coffee machine.   “Doesn’t matter anyway.”

Dan watches the muscles in Phil’s back as he makes the coffee, brows still raised as he takes sips of his own drink and leans against the kitchen counter. It’s silent for a long moment before he breathes a laugh, finishing off his coffee.

“Okay?” Dan murmurs, staring at Phil’s form for a second longer in amusement before shifting off the kitchen counter to head down the hall.

He’s about to leave the room when Phil calls him back, his head poking from around the corner of the kitchen as Dan lingers in the hallway. “Dan?”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing today?” Phil asks, and he’s standing sort of awkwardly, moving out of view to grab his coffee as the machine beeps before returning with his mug in hand.

Dan hesitates for a moment. “Probably just sitting on the window seat. As usual.”

“Reading Plath? Woolf?”

Dan almost wants to commend Phil on his efforts to understand his taste in literature, but stops short with a smile, nodding. The nod slows when he realizes Phil’s frowning.

“Let’s go somewhere instead. It’s autumn and you need to experience the real world instead of hiding in books-”

“You’re an English major too-”

Phil rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his coffee; “But I know the difference between studying something and living something. You need to get out more. Find something to write your sappy poems on.”

Dan scoffs, ducking into his bedroom to grab his jacket. “They are not  _sappy_. I bet you’ve never read any of Parker’s poems or Charlotte Brontë, have you.”

“J.D Salinger is more my kind of thing.” Phil stretches, and Dan doesn’t forget that he’s standing in the middle of the hallway half naked but he pretends so to avoid the blush on his cheeks from spreading any further.  

“You’re disgusting.” Dan retorts, scrunching up his nose, and Phil laughs. “Get some clothes on.”

Phil’s smile is sheepish, like he’s been caught, and he quickly downs his coffee before slipping past Dan to his room.

And it’s unusual for Dan to want to do something more than sink into fiction, but he convinces himself he wants to know more about Phil’s disastrous taste in books, and in all honesty he’s excited to know where Phil wants to take him. So he goes along with it, waiting with keys in hand in the kitchen, staring at the kitchen floor with a smile on his face that he can’t dim down despite his best efforts.

He supposes, in some cases, his fear is irrational.

-

Dan can’t get over Phil’s choice of outfit. Mostly for the fact that it’s insulting to his eyesight.

“Phil- I’m walking with a fucking giant pug. What the hell  _is_  that?”

Phil giggles to himself, mouth opening in a smile of protest. “Sylvia Plath would love it Dan. Let’s face it. No lavender jumpers or Rolex watches can beat the Pug jumper.”

Dan hits him across the chest, aiming for the pug only for Phil to dodge, accidentally bumping into a passerby on the footpath. He mutters an apology before shaking his head at Dan, his face of mock disgust. “First you abuse my Pug jumper and now you’re pushing me into innocent people. Maybe you should’ve stayed home with Sylvia-”

Dan nudges him again and he’s laughing, and Dan’s grinning, and his heart sinks a little at the same time because it’s at that moment when he realises he’s a little bit fucked.

“I swear to god, Phil- where are we even going, anyway?”

Phil pauses; looks around. “I don’t really know. I just wanted to get you out of our apartment, really. How about…”

“The library?” Dan suggests, his eyes set on the glass building not too far away. Phil screws his face up, looking at Dan like he just ran over a small animal.

“Are you kidding? No. We can go- there’s this cute place in the countryside like five minutes away from here that does really good coffee, and they have a little petting zoo sort of thing, and really pretty gardens. We’re going there.”

“Alright,” Dan says with a lilt in his voice, his hands raising in surrender at Phil’s determination. And when Phil pulls his arms back down to drag him along he just rolls his eyes and goes with it.

-

They enjoy the weekend. It’s when Monday morning rolls around, however, and Dan’s clinging to white sheets because they’re  _warm_  and he doesn’t want to get out of bed ever, really, that things change. Something about being restricted to a schedule unsettles him, makes his skin crawl a little and so he’s more than a little antsy when an equally tired Phil knocks at the bathroom when he’s using it, opening it with a toothbrush in his mouth to find Phil messy haired, drowsy eyed and soft faced. Dan makes a noncommittal groan and lets Phil push past him when he’s finished, and they go about their day without two words to each other because the hangover of sleep changes a person, and conversation is something that seems unnecessary. Especially when Dan’s got a headache he can’t shake off and even the boiling of the kettle seems too loud as he’s sat at the dining room table.

He thinks about his unwritten novel as he sips from a cup of tea at half past 7, staring at the cracks in the wood of the table as he imagines metaphors winding up the table legs and melting into the surface, his vision clouded with phosphenes. 7am on a Monday brings a whole new feeling in comparison to 7am on a Sunday, and so Dan lets his thoughts blend into each other and barely lifts his head when Phil walks into the room, his only greeting being an impressively large yawn.

And the thing is, they aren’t quite fixed, not yet. Sure, Dan may be succumbing to Phil’s attempts of apology for winding Dan up, and maybe they’re getting along a whole lot better but it doesn’t stop the arguments from intertwining themselves between pieces of conversation and smashing all progress they had to pieces. Part of Dan thinks that Phil regrets that night in the club, and part of him does too but he knows if Phil ever asked he’d be on his knees in a second. Maybe that’s sort of fucked up, he doesn’t know; he isn’t quite sure of how he feels at the moment, because his writing and the words of his inspirations are blinding his sense of reality and he finds that he understands the torture of the writer’s perspective, at times like this. He’s trying though, and Phil’s trying too, except they’re both trying to forget and Dan isn’t really sure if he wants that in the first place. Maybe he shouldn’t try to forget, maybe it’s better  _not_  to forget, because for a strange reason it’s given Dan a source of inspiration for little over a month now, and his words are lit up with colour and passion and vibrance, and he doesn’t want it to stop.

He rubs his eyes, and takes a sip of his tea. Phil’s looking at him again, his gaze burning into Dan’s skin in impatience, but Dan ignores him, because he can’t handle it at this precise moment.

-

_“What’s wrong?”_

_“Nothing. I’m fine.”_

_“Do you want a cup of tea?”_

_“I’d love one.”_

_“Okay.”_

-

When people told Dan that the inside of someone’s home is reflective of their personality, he didn’t quite think it would turn out to be so true. Sven’s apartment- Dan wouldn’t quite go as far as to call it a  _pig sty_ , but with the extent of the mess he and Sophie seem to have gathered over the past few months he can’t call it anything other than a mess. It’s a Thursday evening when he arrives to the usual clutter of miscellaneous paint pots scattered across wooden tables stained with watermarks, and Dan’s here for study but one look at Sven’s sprawling figure and he knows the older boy has better ideas.

He’s not painting, for a start, his focus directed solely on a TV screen out of Dan’s line of sight, and Dan only has to glance at the collection of scrunched up flashes of colour littering the floor to realise today isn’t the best day to come around. Inching past the piles of paper threatening to block his path, he notices that Sven isn’t alone; Sophie sits on the edge of a small, plush loveseat, her expression vivid in concentration and frozen captivation.

“What are you so excited about?” Dan asks, manoeuvring to sit next to Sophie, who barely takes her eyes off the screen. He watches the both of them for a long second before either of them reply, observing the way Sven seems to open his mouth in an attempt to answer, his head moving slowly towards Dan in an effort to pay attention to both his screen and his friend at the same time.

“Sven’s trying to get Gold Trophies in every track on Mario Kart and it’s actually working.” Sophie remarks as Sven swears and leans forward again, “He’s doing so much better than I thought.”

“Oh,” Dan says, dryly; “I thought there was a reason you both look like you’d seen Jesus.”

“It’s a significant moment in our lives, Dan. To be honest I never thought Sven was capable of something like this, but it’s happening. It’s like a miracle. I’m experiencing a miracle.”

Dan just nods, throwing his English assignment onto the mess disguising the coffee table. “To be honest, Sven’s not capable of much.”

Sven loses his concentration for a moment to glare at Dan, dark curls falling into his eyes as he attempts to keep control of his kart. “That’s just rude.”

“I kind of feel Sophie’s amazement,” Dan starts, sitting back on the sofa, “Phil’s already completed over half of the tracks with Gold Trophies and it’s only been two months since he bought the game.”

“Isn’t that the guy you met in that club-”

“Fuck’s  _sake,_ ” Dan mutters; “We live together. I thought I told you about this.”

Sven smirks, scoffing a little under his breath. “Doesn’t mean you didn’t let him go down on yo- fuck _OFF_ -”

Sven laughs in protest as Dan jumps over the coffee table to knock the controller out of his hands, clambering onto Sven to stop him from reaching for where it lays on the floor. They’re both a mess of tangling limbs and Dan lets a laugh out himself at the position he has Sven in, hands held in a lock above his head. He reaches down for the controller, holding it just out of arms reach so that Sven whines in disapproval and rolls his eyes.

“You made me lose my race.”

Dan grins at Sven’s exaggerated pout, raising his brows. “You _asked_ for it.”

From somewhere behind him he hears a muttered  _‘Jesus Christ_ ’, which he ignores in favour of waving the controller slightly too far away for Sven’s grabby hands to snatch, watching in amusement as Sven seemingly gives up, flopping back onto the sofa and poking Dan’s thighs to make him shift off of him. Smirking in victory, Dan lets himself relax, slipping off Sven’s lap with the controller loose in his hands. He’s about to turn back to Sophie in search of the acknowledgement of his success when tanned hands grab him from behind, snatching the controller from his grip and pulling him backwards until he’s toppling back onto Sven’s lap, breathless.

“Fuck you.” Dan manages in between laughs, directing half hearted punches of protest to Sven’s stomach before relaxing into his position over Sven’s lap, scowling when Sophie raises her eyebrows from across the room.

“He’s made me lose, now. And I can’t play if he’s made himself at home on top of me.” Sven complains to Sophie, though his hand drifts down to play with the sleeve of Dan’s jumper, his frown deceptively fond as he wrinkles his nose at Dan. And Dan’s kind of- he’s really content in this moment, because Sven is both his best friend and the one who infuriates him the most, and for the most part he’s perfectly fine with that. He feels a sort of closeness with Sven, an easiness that doesn’t really come with his other friendships and it’s this realisation that convinces him he really does love Sven, in a strange way. Dan thinks maybe the endless amount of time they spent together during the first year of university may have counted towards this more than a little.

And it’s this that jolts him into noticing that really, he hasn’t spent much time at all with Sven since he moved in with Phil. His sudden influx of interest towards Phil, his augmented need for inspiration and fuel and colour in the form of someone new has put a dent in his existing relationships, and something about it tastes sour; he doesn’t like the imprint the realisation leaves behind. So he grins at Sophie, pulls himself into a sitting position next to Sven and lets himself relax.

“Let me do it and I’ll win for you.”

Sven rolls his eyes, nudging Dan’s shoulder. “No way am I letting you mess this up. I’m so close now.”

“But I-”

“I know,” Sven says, sympathetic, “You’ve had heaps of practice with Phil. But I haven’t even let  _Sophie_ touch the controller, so you’re going nowhere near it.”

-

Dan brings Sven home two nights later after Sven had somehow convinced him out on a day trip to an art museum, and the exhaustion they feel from hours travelling either way is evident as soon as they step foot in the doorway.

“‘M so  _tired,_ ” Sven groans, padding into the living room and flopping down onto the sofa in front of a confused Phil. Dan follows closely behind, shuffling softly across the carpet with an arm out to conceal a yawn, his hair mussed as he nudges Sven’s unmoving figure to get him to move up.

“Hey Phil,” Dan mumbles when he’s curled up next to Sven, his eyes closed as he drops his head to rest on Sven’s lap. His mind is spilling with carelessness, his thoughts softened with the mellow edge of sleep and so he finds it a thousand times harder to just  _keep his mouth shut_  and not say anything he’ll regret in the morning; Sven acts as his only defence, so he curls further into the boy’s lap and lets out another yawn, smiling subconsciously when Sven’s fingers come to thread through his curling hair.

“Um,” Phil says, and he’s staring at the two of them from where they’re laid on the opposite sofa, “Do you want me to move? I mean- I can just-”

“Shut up,” Dan complains with a frown, his lips quirking upwards at Phil’s discomfort; “You don’t have to go anywhere. We’re just sleeping.”

Phil observes them for a moment longer, watching the small smile on Dan’s face at Sven’s movements. “Ok. Ok, but like. Are you two- are you together? I mean-”

Dan’s eyes crack open fully at the words, and he laughs when he sees how flustered Phil is getting, stumbling over his words in an effort to sound casual. He finds that something about the way Phil is so uncomfortable, almost jealous in his body language, is so entertaining, so endearing and  _fucking_ attractive that he almost lets himself lie.

To his dismay, Sven beats him to the reply with a laugh.

“Are you kidding? Dan’s like my  _brother_.”

“Ew. You’ve kissed me before. Brothers don’t kiss each other.”

Sven rolls his eyes. “Whatever. You know what I mean. Dan’s too needy and annoying to be my boyfriend. And he talks in his sleep. Mostly about  _other boys_ -”

“Shut up! Oh my god.” Dan slaps him lightly, turning over to bury his face in the sofa.

“He’d also want his boyfriend to serenade him with poetic 19th century literature-”

“I can imagine that, actually,” Phil says in amusement, and Dan shifts a little to glare at him, only to feel a tug in his chest in seeing the soft fondness Phil is directing towards him, a small and genuine smile dusting his features. Phil is flushed, slightly, his eyes a little more alive than Dan’s seen them before and yet he still senses a kind of hostility towards Sven, especially as Sven’s fingers come to rest in Dan’s hair, Phil’s eyes flicking down to the movement immediately. He’s fucking  _jealous_.  

At the realisation Dan’s smile widens and he holds Phil’s gaze for a moment, questioning. Phil holds his poker face, though, his expression shifting to become unreadable as he watches the two of them from the other sofa and Dan doesn’t quite know what he gets out of it but he finds it’s more than entertaining to see Phil flustered, to see Phil jealous over  _him_.

Before he has chance to keep the conversation going Sven is nudging him off his lap and onto the sofa, lifting himself up in a quick movement. Dan sighs, shifts himself upwards into a sitting position and hugs his knees to his frame in replacement.

“Right, well, I’m off.” Sven announces a little too loudly, moving swiftly to press a kiss to Dan’s hair, and Dan can only murmur a quick ‘bye’ to him before he’s shuffling down the hallway and out of the door, a slight slam bringing them back to silence.

Phil studies him for a moment, taking in Dan’s curled hair and the sleepiness etched into his features. “How was the art museum?”

“Good,” Dan replies quietly, smiling as he curls further into himself in exhaustion. “Sven made me appreciate Van Gogh in an entirely different way.”

“How’s that?” Phil asks, holding out a blanket and patting the space next to him on the sofa. Dan complies, shifting off his place on the opposite chair to slide in next to Phil, pulling the blanket around them both. He settles, his body angled towards Phil as he speaks.

“He made me stare at each artwork for ten minutes. We spent about half an hour just staring at the same two paintings until people got annoyed and tried to push past- it was truly a spiritual experience.”

Phil laughs, and Dan watches the corners of his eyes crinkle, studies his features in quiet fascination as Phil responds. “Sounds like it.”

“Uh huh,” Dan nods, his eyes fixed on Phil, and it isn’t until Phil raises his eyebrows slightly, a small, almost smug smile making its way onto his face, that he realises that Dan’s staring.

“You’re really tired.” Phil says, more of an observation than anything. Dan just nods again, his lashes fluttering open and closed as he buries himself further into the blankets.

“Yep.”

“Are you going to sleep right here?”

“Yep.”

Phil shuffles, moving an inch closer to Dan in order to get comfortable, and sighs into the blankets. He pulls edges of the blankets that have slipped over Dan’s shoulder back onto him and smooths down his hair in an act of shy hesitance, watching as Dan relaxes into the warmth, a content smile smoothing into sleep.

“Okay.”

-

The evening burns fragile blues and hues of pink into the expanse above him as Dan lifts the bottle to his lips, takes a long swig. The small balcony they own across a landscape of stark buildings and sloping concrete isn’t much, but it provides a refuge that Dan can grip onto and feel the air on his cheeks, steady his breaths until he’s almost satisfied. And so he sits, perched with his elbows resting on his knees, his head tilted to the view across from him, and tries to drown the sickening realisation that his feelings have manifested themselves into a monster he can’t fight. He’s sighing, his spare hand restless, pulling at the strands of his hair as he tries to clear his thoughts but he keeps fucking thinking about those hands in his hair and those lips on his neck and every time he tries to shake it off it comes back even stronger. And really, he shouldn’t be all that surprised. Really, he should’ve realised from the beginning that this would happen, because Dan is the kind of person who, when inspired, when  _infatuated,_  attaches himself in a way that doesn’t allow himself to let go. He knows it’s probably not the most ideal thing to think, when Phil is eager only to get to know him better as a friend and not anything else, he knows, but in Dan’s mind it was too late the moment Phil stepped into that bathroom.

The ridiculous thing with Dan’s inclination to latch onto people in fascination is that more than occasionally he’s drawing off weeks, at best, of interaction; it lasts in short bursts, in one night stands and staccato relationships and before he knows it he’s fucked up and back at square one. Dan writes of smooth porcelain skin and eyes of deceit and lying hands; he writes of colourful idiosyncrasies and sharply carved jawlines and the relief of handprints etching into his skin, and after they’re done with him he forgets, and moves on. The ridiculous thing is, he knows only his own discernment of the people he loves so harshly. He knows only of his imagined amalgamation of each person’s characteristics, part of his codependency with fiction, and yet- he can’t quite bring himself to believe that Phil will be different, despite their rocky start and the hesitance which draws a shaky line between them on the kitchen floor at 7:33am on a Friday.

What _frustrates_ him is that he can’t go a second in Phil’s presence without his chest aching and his heart beating a little too fast and it’s only been three months of them living together and Dan’s fallen so hard he’s cracked his skull. The worst thing is, he’s pretty sure Phil has some idea; Dan doesn’t miss the looks Phil gives him, the habit Phil has of biting his lip when he’s thinking hard, trying to figure something out. And Dan knows it’s him Phil’s trying to understand, but he’s blinded by reluctance to face up to anything, shoves down anything that threatens to reveal his feelings.

Dan takes another sip from the bottle.

He doesn’t notice Phil slipping in from behind him until he’s positioning a chair adjacent to Dan’s and flopping down just as lavender dips into grey. Dan jumps, clutching onto the neck of his bottle as he lets out a nervous laugh and he’s blinking back stains of blue as Phil licks his lips.

“It’s a bit cold for this,” Phil says, his voice slanted into soft tones, and Dan watches as he brings an identical bottle to his lips and takes a sip. They’re testing each other again, dancing in heated circles around each other as Dan inclines his head, Phil nibbles his bottom lip, their eyes meeting quick and often, drawn out until Dan has to remember to breathe.

“Dan,” Phil begins, and the tone of his voice is evident enough to suggest that he wants to know something, and Dan’s terrifying himself with the possibilities. He raises his brows slightly, gives Phil what he hopes isn’t a worrying expression.

“Yeah?”

Phil drags his eyes across Dan’s figure, a long pause pooling at their ankles as Dan tries to stay calm, and he  _would_  be, for the most part, if Phil wasn’t looking at him like that. Deaf silence hangs, threatening Dan with anticipation and enhancing the effect Phil’s gaze is having on him. He can only bring himself to return the eye contact until he begins to shuffle in his seat, and his neck flushes crimson, his cheeks following suit. Phil seems to consider him for a second longer; Dan’s fighting back an urge not to bite his lips or fiddle with his drink, his mind racing because _fuck_  Phil’s going to say something he won’t have an answer to and he’s burning up, he’s-

“Can you play me something on the piano?”

“What?” Is his immediate response, because he was really not expecting that and now he’s almost gasping in breaths of relief. To Phil he must look like a flustered mess, his hair stuck up from where he had been pulling it, his cheeks red, his voice breathy and verging on breaking.

“You’re just- you’re really good at it, and I want to hear you play.” Phil’s saying, and Dan has to force himself to  _focus_ , standing up on wobbly legs and nodding his head furiously. The voice in his head is screaming that perhaps he’s had a little too much to drink, with the multiple glasses of red wine he had before this; perhaps he has, but Phil wants to hear him play and he knows he’s better at playing drunk, anyway.

“Yes! Okay, yeah. What do you want me to play?” Dan asks, placing his bottle on the table beside him and waiting for Phil to follow behind him, making a beeline for his bedroom. The apartment is swathed in dusk, scents of pumpkin and vanilla, pomegranate and juniper berry, and Dan rolls his eyes when he sees the multiple candles lit dangerously close to their living room curtains.

“Anything, really,” Phil replies, ducking to move a candle away from potentially starting a house fire. He clicks on the fairy lights they’ve strung across the back wall before following Dan down the hallway, and Dan in his irrefutable love of ABBA has a burning urge to play Chiquitita, but he knows Phil would laugh at him for even suggesting it.

They both sit down on the piano stool in Dan’s room and Dan flexes his fingers, draws his jumper sleeves up to his elbows as he thinks. Phil’s sitting much closer to him than he needs to be, his breath tickling at Dan’s neck; it’s harder than he thinks to suppress a shudder. The room is dim, scents of rich candle wax burning drifting in through the hallway. Phil stays still, waits. And Dan can’t help but think about how loud his heart is beating, and how Phil can most likely hear it.

He starts with his favourite piece, his fingers soon relaxing under lines of black and white as he finds the rhythm and sinks into the melody. It’s quiet in the room bar for the fragility of  _clair de lune_ , and Phil is so still beside him, his chest rising and falling slowly in smooth motion. The thing is- Dan loves piano, he loves stringing notes together to create a mood and an atmosphere and ending with something alive and beautiful and  _whole_. He wonders in crisp tones and the gentle collision of notes, his head tilted slightly to the floor as he plays, and the music seems to flow from his fingers in soft embers, shading in the corners of the room with muted colour.

By the middle of the song Phil’s leaning into his side, and Dan doesn’t dare take his eyes off the notes underneath him but he can see Phil’s lashes dropping closed in his peripheral vision, his breath dusting Dan’s forearms in a sigh. His head is spinning with the combination of alcohol and the exhaustion of restraint, and so he ducks his head further and devotes himself to delivering the notes in solidity, biting his lip as he gets lost in the sound.

Soft fingers linger on final notes, and as he twists his head to seek Phil’s approval he isn’t expecting how close they are, Phil’s head tilted slightly to rest on his shoulder. It’s as if Phil doesn’t even know he’s doing it, letting out a hum of appreciation which vibrates in the soft fabric covering Dan’s collarbone. Dan comes to the assumption that he’s just a little sleepy, and maybe a bit intoxicated too but he is as well and he _knows_  he has a habit of fucking things up when he’s a little far from sober. Luckily, after the notes have faded from Phil’s immediate memory he straightens up, stifling a yawn into his hand which tightens Dan’s chest in fondness. His hair is slightly mussed and the smile he gives Dan is wide, and Dan’s thinking of flowers, again, and how Phil would be a fucking sunflower, because he’s bright and he’s kindhearted and he’s soft all in one.

“Did you like it?” The words are guarded yet gentle, directed only to linger in the few inches of space between them. Phil’s smile grows, and he nods, bringing his fingers up to the keys to play a few haphazard notes.

“It looks so beautiful when you play, like- your fingers just glide and the melody is so-  _beautiful_. It’s beautiful.” Dan catches his eye and notices a hint of enchantment, tastes a slight sense of fascination in Phil’s demeanour and it fills him with such a rare warmth that he has trouble containing his grin and letting breathy laughs escape his lips.

“Nice use of adjectives there, Phil.”

“Shut up,” Phil remarks, walking two of his fingers along the notes almost absentmindedly. “I bet I could make a song.”

Dan sits back, gesturing to the keys. “Go on then.”

He watches as Phil seems to consider his starting notes, his hands flexed towards the keys in concentration, his expression so full of rapt determination it makes Dan laugh, shaking silently in his seat.

“ _What?_  Shut up, I’m trying to think about what I can call the piece.”

“What are you going for?”

Phil taps his lip with a finger, scrunching up his nose as he thinks. “Sort of- an intergalactic symphony, kind of thing.”

“ _Intergalactic symphony_?” Dan’s eyebrows are raised, laughter threatening the corners of his lips into a smile. “You sure you’re ready for that?”

Phil scoffs. “Of course I’m ready. If aliens can play it then so can I.”

“You are so weird. I mean- alright. Go for it.”

Phil starts with a low C and Dan watches as his fingers climb the scale, every so often punctuating his tune with a high note. His brows are furrowed in concentration, his tongue poking out ever so slightly between his lips. Dan thinks about how, partly, this is an excuse to stare at Phil without him noticing, and so he does so, subconsciously licking his lips as his gaze drifts over pale skin and cerulean eyes, ink black hair, an undiluted softness hanging around him like a halo. Everything in his position is muted and calm, mellow and subdued, and Dan really wants to reach out to push back the strands of hair threatening Phil’s vision but he finds enough willpower to keep his hands glued to his lap. He’s falling, he’s really  _fucking_ falling but he has no idea what to do about it or how to step forwards and so he sits in yesterday’s desires and tomorrow’s hopes and he waits. Not that he really expects anything to happen.

The improvisation Phil has hastily labeled a song quickly dies out as Phil gets frustrated, a cluster of sharp, jagged off-notes bringing Dan back to attention.

“You okay?” Dan comments lightly, and Phil’s frowning at the keys as if they’ve done something wrong, before looking up at Dan indignantly.

“That was supposed to happen. Intergalactic symphonies don’t have to conform to the standard rules of song structure.”

“Sure,” Dan says sarcastically, eyebrows raised.

“It was. I call it ‘Symphony of Winston the Galactic Space Dog’.”

“Well. It’s original, that’s for sure.”

Phil just nods, and Dan’s quiet laughs are interrupted when Phil dances his fingers across the piano again, messily hitting the keys before he reaches the highest note and brings a finger to tap the end of Dan’s nose, halting his breath.

To put it elegantly, he’s fucked.

-

Dan begins his novel in the form of neon post it notes stuck to the edges of tables and scraps of paper left haphazardly around the apartment. Words flow into crystalline shapes and possibilities; he ponders the idea of dancing flowers and how destined in their fate they are to be together. Muted sunsets and autumnal scents and the softness of the early morning leave fingerprints on his skin, so he transfers the taste into words and coats himself in the relief fiction gives him, pen tapping absently on shaded pine. Phil hands him a coffee and he’s humming, inspiration dragging him further when the ends of their fingers touch, dragging him into a need to clasp Phil’s hand from across the table and press a kiss to his temple and doodle on the freckles dotting his arms, but he can’t, so he translates this need into words and hopes for the best.

It’s not certain whether Phil reads the pieces of Dan’s mind crumpled up in corners, peeking out of hardback novels. It’s not definite, but in times where their eyes meet and Phil’s giving him a look,  _the_  look he gives when he wants to know what’s under Dan’s skin, Dan thinks that maybe, Phil’s got him sussed.

-

The easy way of things they seem to have adopted reaches its fourth month, and Dan’s almost accustomed to seeing Phil drowsy eyed and clad in only a t-shirt and boxers, almost used to the marathons of  _Buffy_  and the  _X-Files_  they have when there’s a paper due the next day and neither of them want to finish it. The initial awkwardness they coped with has dissipated, overtaken by a strange familiarity in sharing a bathroom sink in the early morning and curling up together on the sofa at night. They’re not- Dan has a hard time recognising, through all of this, what they actually are, because they’re _something_. They’re not nothing. They’re something, it’s just that Dan has no clue of exactly what, and he doubts Phil does either.

Making a move still proves to be a feat too courageous for Dan, who curls into his insecurities and hides underneath a layer of _‘we’re friends’_  to Sven, who knows everything and doesn’t believe a thing Dan says except for the (blatant) observation that Dan is very obviously in love and he should very obviously do something about it.

He  _knows_  he should do something about it.

-

To Dan’s immense relief, Phil takes the matter into his own hands.

It’s verging on Christmas, the days until Dan is meant to be travelling home dwindling into single digits, and his course is on break, so he and Phil spend hours decorating their apartment and looking up ambiguous Japanese sweets on Ebay. Their living room is doused in tinsel and scented Christmas candles; Phil’s taken particular fondness to a cluster of Yankee Candles he found with descriptions of _sugared plums_  and  _candied fruits_ ,  _hollyberry_ and s _now covered pines_. He pronounces the scents in his best ‘presenter’ voice and Dan laughs, hits him lightly on the head with his paperback copy of Hemingway’s  _The Sun Also Rises_ , and for some reason he feels more at ease than ever. Something about Christmas makes everything softer, wears sharp edges down until Dan finds that each day comes to him easily. He’s content in rolling out of bed in the late morning to sit in the living room pressed up next to Phil on the sofa, a novel in hand and his thoughts elsewhere. He’s happy to just- let whatever this is run its course, because it’s far better than nothing and he doesn’t have the courage to press for more.

On the last week before Dan leaves for home, Phil decides that Christmas baking is a good idea. He almost drags Dan from his room to help make Phil’s idea of Christmas themed cookies, and Dan doesn’t completely feel like baking for two hours but the enthusiasm Phil dedicates to getting out the ingredients is enough to get him to stay. And so he assumes his place atop the kitchen counter, legs dangling, and watches Phil move about the kitchen in high spirits.

The apartment smells fucking  _divine,_  Phil’s selected candle burning from its place in the living room, and Dan’s familiarized with the glow that the festive atmosphere seems to exhume. It’s a kind of warmth that spreads throughout his chest, curls into his ribcage and tickles at the edges of his heart and he loves it, even more so with the addition of an animated Phil and cheesy Christmas music playing from Phil’s laptop. He finds that he’s happy; content with where he is and how things have come to be. And, Dan supposes, the festivities may have loosened the tightness in his throat, brought down his guard and made him more hopeful than he really should be, but he’s too immersed in his situation to care, really.

“Are you really going to wear all black?” Phil questions from where he’s delving inside a cupboard, looking for a substitute for measuring cups.

Dan looks down at his black jumper and skinny jeans. “Why not?”   

“No reason.” Phil’s saying, but his expression is kind of amused, verging on cunning. He says nothing more, turning around before taking Dan in painfully slowly.

“What?” Dan asks, pulling his jumper sleeves over his wrists.

“Nothing,” Phil licks his lips. “Just- come here.”

Dan does as he’s told, slipping off the counter to stand in front of Phil expectantly. He’s not sure if he’s imagining the tension in the air but something in his chest squeezes, a little, and he’s left vulnerable, waiting. Phil just stares at him for a moment, leaving him unsure of himself and so he brings up a hand to wipe his mouth in case of any leftover smudges of chocolate left on his lips from the box of roses they had eaten most of earlier in the day. He doesn’t miss the way Phil’s lips curve into a smile at the movement, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Just as he’s opening his mouth to ask- s _omething_ , he’s not sure what- Phil brings a bowl out from behind his back and hands it to him. “Here.”

Dan takes it skeptically, before he remembers what they were actually doing in the time before he got his hopes up,  _again_. He lets out a breath, fingers tightening on the bowl.

Phil turns around, his eyes skimming the recipe for a moment. “Okay, put the bowl on the counter and cream the butter and sugar until it’s fluffy,” he instructs, and Dan grabs a wooden spoon.

“We don’t have a  _mixer_ , Phil. This is going to take ages.” He’s whining and he knows it, but Dan’s not sure his arms are up for such a strenuous effort when he’s aware he could easily walk 5 steps out of their apartment to a corner shop and buy some ready made.

“Just use your man strength,” Phil says, deadpan. Dan scoffs, but starts mixing the gloopy mess together, pushing his jumper sleeves to his elbows in an effort to stab the little chunks of butter that don’t seem to be getting any smaller. When he’s about satisfied he pokes Phil lightly in the ribs, earning a squeal which screams anything _but_ manly.

“Done,” he announces, offering Phil the bowl.  

“No, wait. You’ve got bowl control.”

“ _Bowl control?_  Really?” His eyebrows raised, Dan places the bowl back on the counter, feigning disgust at Phil’s words. Phil just laughs, and he’s forced to cave under the strength of the sound, his lips splitting into a smile as he bites them to stop it advancing.

“Look- who’s going to crack the egg?”

“I’ll let you do it as long as you  _promise_  you won’t get half the shell in it.”

Phil gives his best sincere look, holding the egg over the bowl. “I’m the master of egg cracking, Dan. Just watch.”

Dan watches. And he isn’t in the least bit surprised when Phil’s left with tiny bits of shell throughout their mixture; he fixes Phil with a slow shake of the head, laughing when Phil opens his mouth in an attempt to think of a retaliation.

“Disappointing.” Dan sighs, watching as Phil goes to grab the flour. The mess they seem to have already created is made evident with the trails of flour Phil leaves behind him as he brings it over to the counter, his hands somehow covered in white as he begins measuring it onto the scales. It’s sort of strange to Dan that he finds himself just wanting to watch, because Phil’s so fucking endearing in this state and when he looks over at Phil for a second time he’s managed to get the flour on his left cheek and in his hair, and somehow not yet actually in the bowl. It’s amusing, sure; Dan’s having trouble to stop a laugh from passing his lips as he watches the boy in front of him fiddling with kitchen utensils, but it’s also- he finds that really, all he wants to do is crowd Phil up against the kitchen counter and kiss him until he’s blushing, until his hands are wrapping around Dan’s neck and he’s letting out little sighs into Dan’s lips-

“Did Sven come over last night?” Phil asks, cutting Dan’s thoughts short; he’s almost sure Phil knows something from the rose blush tinting his cheeks but he wills it away with a slow shake of the head.

“No, he’s up in Liverpool with Sophie and Jack. Why?”

“Just wondering.” Phil says quickly, and then he’s focusing on the mixture again, his back turned away from Dan slightly.

Phil had gone out the night before, leaving Dan in a quiet apartment with nothing much to do except re-read Whitman’s poems under the small space of light Phil’s fairy lights provided. And, for the first time, Dan had felt a kind of dissociation, a kind of loneliness that comes with attachment. He sat in thoughts of neon light and heavy bass and grinding bodies, in jealousy and apprehension and unconfirmed assurances of  _‘it’s just a friend’s birthday night out, i’ll be back late so don’t bother staying up’_ , his mind twisting words into dripping tourmaline and clouded verisimilitudes, and somehow Dan convinces himself they were only gross exaggerations. That is, until Phil turns back to him, opens his mouth.

“A girl asked me out last night.”

Dan’s thoughts freeze, his body stiffening completely from where he was leaning up against the counter. The edges of rational thought threaten to blur, screaming you _fucked up you fucked up youfuckedup_  and Dan has to blink away angry spots of dark light in order to steady himself enough to answer.

“Yeah?” It’s barely audible, a little breathless and so obviously coated in pain. Phil continues without flinching.

“Yeah. But I said no.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Phil repeats, laughs softly. He’s tensed, but Dan can sense the calm and collected demeanour Phil holds beneath it, and it confuses him to no end. Mostly for the fact that the only thing Dan can tangibly _feel_  right now is completely unrefined jealousy. His head swims with it, until he’s almost clutching the kitchen counter to stop himself and he  _doesn’t understand_  why Phil can be so casual about this.

“I thought that was kind of obvious.” Phil’s saying, quietly, carefully. He watches Dan’s expression, his features softening when he becomes aware of the dejection on Dan’s face.

“What?” Dan asks simply, stuck in a fixed perplexion. The Christmas music rings too loud in the background, the red of Phil’s shirt too bright. He’s starting to feel a little sick.

“Oh my god,” Phil breathes, shaking his head, and in a smooth motion he’s advancing towards Dan, backing Dan into the counter until all he can think of is  _fuck he’s so close oh my god_  as Phil leans up a little to reach Dan’s height, his hands resting on Dan’s cheeks as he tugs Dan in and connects their lips. It’s messy, a little uncoordinated as Phil’s hands move to wrap around his neck, dusting him with flour; his head spins, and it isn’t until Phil’s pushing him further back onto the counter that he realises. His sudden grin is so wide that Phil has to break away, huffing a soft laugh when Dan chases his lips, immediately reciprocating Phil’s actions with more effort.

They end up tangled together, Phil’s body in between Dan’s thighs as he’s hitched up onto the counter, their kisses deepening until Dan’s gasping for breath, leaning back as Phil moves his lips to Dan’s neck. It’s nothing like their first; Dan recalls an urgency in that empty bathroom, a sense of desire and _wantwantwant_  and the essence of curling a stranger around his finger, the fluidity of no emotion and no attachment. They were dancing around each other on tiptoes, their personalities sinking underneath the weight of wanting a quick fuck, and Dan knows it’s nothing like that, now. Now they’re gentle, tender, their movements affectionate and filled with the adoration a few months together can produce. Every kiss Phil presses to Dan’s neck is warm, lined with assurance, promise. He feels  _wanted_ , and it’s such a soaring feeling, so demanding and present in his mind that he feels almost dizzy with relief, overtaken by the lifted weight of anticipation.

“Ph- you’re getting flour all over me,” Dan murmurs, pulling back to laugh at the obvious handprints covering the soft cotton of his jumper.

“Oops.” Phil brushes white off Dan’s cheeks, leaning in to press their lips together before moving back with that cunning smile Dan had recognised earlier, and it clicks.

“You don’t sound the least bit apologetic,” he starts, his words slow; “It was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

Phil just beams, and Dan swats him lightly, lips curving into a disbelieving grin.

“I told you not to wear black.”

“You’re unbelievable.” Dan mumbles, the fondness he feels for the boy in front of him swallowing him whole, and stops Phil’s words in favour of bringing him in for another kiss, hands tangling around Phil’s neck.

“You love it.”

-

Dan goes home for Christmas and the New Year. He spends most of his time texting Phil, if he’s honest, but nothing makes up for when he’s slinging his bag over his shoulder and walking the route from the train station back to the apartment in January, his thoughts filled with the same infatuation Dan thought he’d shook off weeks before. He unlocks the apartment and Phil’s there, and his bag is knocked to the floor as Phil catches him in a tight hug; it’s the sharp realisation that he feels more at home than ever which makes him smile, forms the crater-like dimples that Phil loves.

They drink wine on their balcony at night with their thoughts glued to books and each other, their hands locked in a craving for physical comfort. Sven teases them for their growing co dependency on each other, complains that Dan never stops talking about Phil, and vice versa; the statement leaves a soft blush on Phil’s cheeks that Dan decides he loves, so he punctuates Sven’s words with a kiss. And they become accustomed to waking up next to each other, to seeing each other glazed with messy hair and sleepy eyes. Their routine becomes the same, and Dan never tires of Phil’s bizarre philosophies, only stops Phil twice from attempting to play his own individually composed songs (the third time was too adorable for Dan to say no, his cynicism giving way under the charm of wide blue puppy eyes and a convincing smile). Dan sees vibrance in their figures and colour in the curves of their relationship; he picks out words from the expanse of Phil’s collarbones and winds them into a page, his ink bleeding from the simplicity and ease they embrace each other with. In all definitions he’s happy, because his novel flows with designated passion, his words spreading themselves with meaning, interlacing to design an imagery he feels proud of. Dan’s happy, because his writing sways with colour, bleeds with fluorescence and love and ardor and he’s sure it’s all down to the fact that he’s more content with his life, now, than anytime before. And from everything he feels a sense of fulfilment, because from cracked smiles and audacious lights Dan chose the brightest, most intimidating thing in the room, and he couldn’t be more grateful for it.

_fin_

 

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr.


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